Progress Narrative
Absolutely nothing got accomplished in my life today—and I mean nothing, and I mean my life: zero. and I was sleeping (up ’til 5 listening to Crystal Waters remixes and writing letters). I waited until the answering machine picked up (Who doesn’t? Telephones can be such a trap). It was BB, just calling to say he hit the skids and wouldn’t be coming to the City for the weekend. Then he told me about a terrible stabbing two streets away from our old apartment and hung up. Well, that depressed me so much I went back to sleep until 1:30, when my mother called. She was watching Leah, Susanna’s new baby. “Baby Leah is going to gurgle into the phone for you.” I told her that when I’m in California, I’ll be taking the Mercedes down the PCH to visit Cha-Cha in Malibu, and she interjected, “There was a reporter from Philadelphia at the OJ trial— he went out to grab a sandwich and had a terrible accident—he died. Those roads out there are treacherous.” She’s still a little girl—neither of us will ever grow up. Then the little girl who is my mother hung up to go feed Leah, and I threw on some underwear—do other people talk to their mothers naked? The phone rang—this time I didn’t pick up, and the mystery caller hung up. It rang again, and I thought “Ha! I’ll find out who that was!,” but it was only Bill, who had not just called and hung up, my previous call a mystery for all time (gotta get Caller ID). Bill was a mess about Swimmerboy and wanted to know the 411 on Lotterina and had a lot to say about Sharon Stone, when the other line blipped and it was Nelson, who was coming over to pick up his sweater. I talked to Bill some more, when the door buzzer buzzed: “It’s Pachuquito from LA—let me in.” Bitch—buzz. Then back to Bill and Nelson in a Pepsi shirt, smart ass. I hung up and made a protein because there were no ice cubes and all the bananas had fruit flies. I drank my shake leisurely and made that little honey walk my ass to Crunch Fitness, where Mistress America was waiting and we talked too much (“Contempa! Look at that colorblock sweater! Mommy and Me!”) and I had to skip my abs, but then this guy in the locker room who bartends at Crobar was there with his sculpted sixpack and I thought to myself, “See, you’ll never look like that.” A steamy douche made me feel better and since the day was already shot I ran over to Starbucks for lemon-iced angel- food and the café du jour—it’s not like I had time to run home and eat a real meal, since I promised Bill I’d meet him at the Gap, 8th and B’way, 5:30 p.m. Lord only knows where he’s taking me—Banditos? Some trash pit. Thanks to Ben Franklin, it’s dark by now. Only the EXIT sign shines bright, like a Warhol Electric Chair silkscreen
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Michael Angelo Tata’s poetry has been exhibited as sculpture in “The Weather,” a multimedia exhibit at the Parlor Gallery (Lancaster, PA), and as fashion through the Long Beach Foundation for the Arts. His poetry has most recently appeared in the journals Origami Condom, LinQ, FRIGG, and Ugly Couch. He is currently American editor for Australian interdisciplinary journal Nebula. |